The Value of Launches.

Unless you’re a best-selling author revelling in your millions, writing’s a tough and often thankless job.  Most of us have to find time to write wherever we can fit it into our busy lives.  For some, that means making time, and writing when we’re exhausted and not in the best headspace.  But we pursue it because we love to try to tell our stories.  More than that, we hope to share our stories, so others can enjoy them.  Well, hopefully.

Of course, that’s only part of the writing cycle.  You still have to submit.  That’s often a time-consuming process.  The submission itself – particularly in this age of email and SubMishMash – is virtually instantaneous.  But then there’s the waiting.  And waiting.  Some publishers and journals also demand exclusive access to your piece, meaning if you’ve submitted it to them, you shouldn’t have submitted it anywhere else.  That can mean you’re waiting anywhere from two weeks to twelve months (and sometimes more) for a single response.  If it’s not accepted, then you get to do it all again.

We’re not in this for the fortune.  We’d like to be.  It’d be great to have a bestseller.  In Australian publishing, and particularly in our tertiary institutions educating writers and editors and whatnotters, all you really hear is that there’s no money in writing.  You’re told that if you’re in it to write a best-seller and make a fortune, then think again.

I hate that attitude.

I like to think that whilst that result is unlikely, it’s still possible if you put in all the hard work.  Why not?  People win lotto.  Not a lot.  But they do win.  And some writers write best-sellers.  So why can’t it be you?  It’s going to be somebody.  That’s been proven.  There’s no harm in nurturing that glimmer of hope as you go about your everyday life.

In any case, let’s accept that we’re primarily not in this for the fortune.  We’re in this for the storytelling.  We’re in this to share our stories and maybe touch others through our writing. Regardless of the end-result – whether it be fame, fortune, frustration, or poverty (or any of the conditions in-between) – the one time we can really feel rewarded for our efforts is at launches.

A book launch is a celebration of all the hard work we’ve put in on so many fronts.  It’s also a time to share our stories, connect with other likeminded people, and to feel a little special about ourselves.

Writing is a tough job.

But every now and then, we have occasion to see it’s worth it.

What makes [untitled] tick.

There’s a lot of work which goes into putting together an issue of [untitled].

Let me give you the briefest run-through.

  • one of our interns – currently Tom O’Connell – logs submissions into a spreadsheet, receipts the authors, and then distributes the stories for reading.  Tom also answers any queries that come [untitled]’s way.
  • Tom, and the two other interns, Jodie Garth and Daniel Kovacevic (and, previously for the upcoming issue five, Lauren Grosvenor) read the submissions and then recommend which go through to the next round of reading.
  • myself and Blaise van Hecke, read the submissions that have gone through to the next round.
  • we have a content meeting (Blaise, myself, and the interns) and choose which stories we’re going to use.  Sometimes, when possible, we personalise responses to authors telling them why their stories have missed out.  We’d love to personalise them all (and used to, initially), but unfortunately just don’t have the time due to the volume of submissions.
    • Repeat the above process until we have enough content for an issue of [untitled].
  • we edit a story and send it back to the author for their consideration and revision.
    • repeat this process until both ourselves and the author are happy with the story.  Some stories might be edited a handful of times.  Others more.  One story for issue five went through fifteen drafts.  The idea here, though, isn’t to be dictatorial.  Your stories are not only a reflection of your own ability and intent, but also on us (and [untitled]), so the goal is to get them as good as they can be.  As has been covered in previous editions of this blog, it’s folly to think a first draft is perfect.  A fresh set of eyes can offer a whole new perspective.
  • on top of this, throw in the reading for the short story competition, the very difficult whittling to the longlist, the shortlist, then determining the winners (who’ll be announced at the launch).
  • at some point, after much nagging from Blaise about writing the editorial, I sit down and ramble through one.
  • Blaise and I sit down and work out the order of how the stories will sit.  Yes, you probably just thought we threw everything in randomly.  Nope.  We work to get the order as right as can be.  For instance, do you really want two relationship stories in a row?  Or two sad stories?  We try to get the book’s pacing right for best journey through it as a whole.
  • I collate the stories into one file and give it a proof.
  • over the course of this period, Blaise’s husband, Kev Howlett, will design the cover.
  • Blaise lays out the book in InDesign, usually complaining about something I’ve done in the editorial which has made her job harder than it should be.  Sorry.  (Not.)
  • [untitled] is printed and sent to a proofreader, who reads the book and marks up any errors that’ve slipped through.
  • Blaise takes in the corrections and sends a .pdf to me for a final check.
  • Blaise books a launch venue, designs launch invites, and sends those out.
  • I mark up anything that’s slipped through proofreading (usually, formatting errors).
  • Blaise takes in those corrections and gives the book a final run-through.
  • it’s sent to the printer.
  • we pray it’s back on time.

It’s a lot of work.  Some of it’s enjoyable (e.g. getting to read lots of good stories, seeing stories get better and better), some of it’s exhausting (having to read lots and lots and lots in a very short space of time, proofing, etc.) but in the end it’s worth it.

There’s a lot of great journals around.  We’ve been here since early 2009.  Since then, we’ve hoped we’ve carved our own own niche and that our name has become emblematic and means something to budding writers.  We hope we’re becoming equal but distinctive to those other great journals.

We’re launching issue five later this month.  In fact, I just happen to have the details right here – isn’t that amazing?

    When: Sunday 27 May 2012
    Time: 3.00pm­–4.30pm

    Where: St Margaret’s Church Hall
    Address: 79-81 Pitt Street, Eltham 3095

(And please RSVP to busybird.at.bigpond.net.au by 23rd May.)

If you’re free, come help us celebrate all this hard work and the publication of a lot of great stories from a lot of talented emerging writers.

 

It’s All About Momentum.

If you were asked to jot down ten tools needed to be a writer, you’d probably list things like imagination, punctuation, grammar, word processor, and on and on you’d go.  Momentum isn’t something that would be on most peoples’ lists.

The reality is that the bulk of us aren’t full-time writers.  Nor can we afford to be.  That pesky little thing called life gets in the way.  With it comes others commitments (family, job, parole officer, etc.), things which eat away at our time, our energy, and headspace.

So, understandably, it’s not easy to find just that little bit of time to write.  Even if we do, we’re usually not in a very good state to use it.

But find it and use it we should.

Let’s look at the flip side first.  Inertia is the enemy of momentum.  When we don’t write, the following happens:

  • we become unfamiliar with our story
  • we become unfamiliar with our characters
  • our story – as a whole – becomes (or seems to become) too unwieldy to tackle in a quick sitting
  • we lose motivation to get back to it
  • we grow discouraged
  • because we become so remote from it, we keep vowing to get back to it … when we have some real time.

There’s a whole load of other things similarly associated to these points.  But inertia – that failure to write at all – is like the construction of a brick wall.  Each day, the wall gets higher, gets more formidable.  Each day, it’s harder to see over the other side.  Each day, the wall becomes more and more unnavigable.

If we could just give ourselves – at the minimum – fifteen minutes a day to work on our writing, the eventual momentum generated can spark an amazing transformation, including:

  • becoming more familiar with our story
  • becoming more familiar with our characters
  • becoming excited about where they’re heading (and, even if you outline every point of your story and know exactly what’s going to happen, it’s still exciting to see the story come to life)
  • being able to tackle our story one step at a time.  This might only be a couple of hundred words, but that’s better than no words at all
  • having something to look forward to in our day.

Writing, as a whole, becomes manageable.

We’re deconstructing the wall.  Maybe we’re not knocking it down entirely, but we’re putting holes in it so that we can see the other side.  Getting those glimpses is galvanising, because then we want to see more.  And as we see more, we’re not just knocking holes, but chunks.  Then the wall itself.

Okay, there’s still the issue of time, energy, and headspace:

  • time: probably the biggest killer.  Some of us have jobs, partners, kids, et al.  So when it comes to time, it’s really a case of finding it wherever possible – but at least fifteen minutes should be attempted each day.  If that means getting up just that same amount of time earlier, so be it.
  • energy: but if we get up half an earlier, we’re exhausted.  Or stay up later, we’re too tired to think.  Right?  That’s probably true.  Initially.  But, remember, this is about momentum, and when you’re motoring along you’ll learn to accept your attitude is, I will write, as opposed to, I won’t, or I’m too tired, or Fifteen minutes isn’t enough time to do anything.  Once you build up that momentum, you’ll ride in that slipstream.  You’ll find that whilst you may still be exhausted, you’re still capable of producing.
  • headspace: as above.  You may sit down at your word processor or notepad, with writing being the last thing on your mind.  But if you apply yourself, the writing will come.  Maybe slowly.  Maybe haltingly.  Maybe even crappily.  But it will.  And that gives you something to work with.  You’ll probably even find that once you’ve been going a while, you’ll be thinking about your story through the general course of the day.  From there, it snowballs.  You’ll want to get back to it.  On and on it goes.

Again, it’s about momentum.  Each time you do it, it becomes easier than the session before.

Once that momentum’s going, you’ll find that more often than not, you’re capable of overcoming all those things you’d previously considered reasons you couldn’t.  You’ll find lots of things clicking into place which encourage you to keep going. You’ll want to keep writing.

Momentum – it’s like falling off a cliff.

LZ.

Digressions and Loops.

Something that annoys me in stories is the overt use of digressions.  There are occasions they’re a necessary evil to introduce back-story, but authors then have to be careful how they’re handled.  I’ve read plenty of stories where the digression constitutes the bulk of the narrative.

There are plenty of ways to seed information without weighing down the reader with exposition, or derailing the narrative with such an unwieldy detour that by the time the reader gets back to the actual story, they’ve forgotten (or lost interest in) what it was about.

Consider, for example, setting up the circumstances of an unhappy marriage.  How would you write that?  Would you just take an information dump on the reader to set up the story’s premise?  Or would you look at a subtler way of introducing it?  Perhaps through showing the dynamics of the relationship (e.g. through an everyday conversation between the couple), or even by using props (e.g. photos and trinkets, which might trigger memories for one of the characters to provide context)?

Something else to think about is what I call looping.  A couple of weeks ago I asked you to contemplate this outline:

  • Bob’s gone to pick up his car from the mechanic’s.  He tries to pay with his credit card.  His card is declined because it’s overextended.
  • Bob rings the bank and finds there’s an expense for a dress – something his wife, Gloria, would’ve bought.
  • Bob goes home, intending to have it out with Gloria.
  • Gloria’s not home.
  • Gloria comes home.  Bob confronts her.

I’m sure a lot of authors writing this sequence of events would use a digression here.  For the sake of space, here’s a very basic example:

    Bob sat in the chair, glowering at the TV.  He couldn’t believe Gloria had maxed out the credit card.  He’d needed to get the car fixed – she knew that.  But when he got to the mechanics, the card had been declined.  He’d rung the bank, and found there’d been a purchase for a dress.  Now he waited for Gloria’s return.

Etc.

In this case, the bulk of events have already occurred.  Bob’s recalling them.  But the reader’s being told what’s happened to have brought Bob to this point.

This is what I call a loop.  Think of the narrative as a line reflecting chronology or events.  We begin with Bob sitting in his chair.  That’s our starting point.  We know he’s angry.  We then go back and explain the circumstances which made him angry.  So our line traces a backward arc to explain that.  The narrative then returns to Bob sitting in his chair, waiting for Gloria – our line has looped back to Bob’s starting point, then resumes the story from there.

Of course, loops can be interesting, and sometimes they’re great ways of summing up lots of back-story succinctly.  And there’s times you don’t want your story chronological, or you want (or need) the events disjointed.

But there are a lot of times – particularly with conventional linear narratives – I wonder why we don’t just see these things occur.  It brings immediacy to the story, instead of miring it in retrospection.  It also shows us these events in action, instead of just telling us about them.  We take the reader along for the ride.  The reader experience’s the character’s journey.

Obviously, we can’t detail every single event in a story, but getting around these loops can force us to think about writing our stories in ways we might not have otherwise considered, and which might open up whole new worlds of possibilities.

LZ.

The 2012 Short Story Competition Shortlist.

We really had a lot of trouble whittling away stories to decide a shortlist. There were so many great stories, and so much great reading. But here now is the shortlist (in no particular order):

    The Altar by Corinne Pentecost
    Mirjana by Youlin Koh
    Skin on Skin by Eliza-Jane Henry-Jones
    Someone Called Rob by Martin Lindsay
    The Worry Man by Adrienne Tam

The winners and two highly commended will be announced at the launch of issue five, the details of which are provided below.

[untitled] issue five launch!

Well, it’s here.  Over a year in the making, issue five is finally ready!

You’d be shocked at the obstacles thrown in our way in putting this issue together — but it’s been worth it. We’ve got a lot of great stories from new and emerging talent from all across the country, as well as a couple of stories from the US.

We’ll also be announcing the the winners of the 2012 short story competition.

Writer and poet, Koraly Dimitriadis, will be launching issue five.  Here are the details:

    When: Sunday 27 May 2012
    Time: 3.00pm­–4.30pm

    Where: St Margaret’s Church Hall
    Address: 79-81 Pitt Street, Eltham 3095

Please RSVP to busybird.at.bigpond.net.au by 23rd May.

The Merits of Formal Education for Aspiring Writers.

To those who haven’t undertaken them, writing courses can seem like strange and alluring practices. A lot of my friends are curious about them.

Do they teach anything you can’t find out on your own?
What sort of assessments do you get?
How accessible are they for beginners?
Are your classmates a bunch of insufferable elitists?

Chances are you may’ve asked questions like these. You may have even taken it a step further and looked into some courses near you. Great, if so, I’m here to offer some personal insight.

At the time of writing, I’m four weeks into my second year of study. Prior to enrolling, my writing experience amounted to a couple of sessions with a writers’ group, a year of workshopping on a writing forum, and an obsession with instructional books and articles – the kind that dealt with craft fundamentals.

Some students were more experienced than this, others less so. One important distinction was that before enrolling I’d had little to no face time with other writers. I had a vague idea of what ‘worked’ in a story but, because I’d so seldom found opportunities to share my work, no real way of knowing whether I was on the right track. The thought of reading my work aloud terrified me and I knew next to nothing about how the industry worked.

This, I’m delighted to say, was subject to change.

Over the next ten nights, I’m going to look at things you can expect from a writing course, beginning with …


Being part of a writing community inspires confidence!

Whether you’re a timid earthworm or the Red Lacewing of social butterflies, there’s something gratifying about being in a room full of people who share your passion. Writing is a solitary pursuit and it isn’t easy to find likeminded folk who will care about and understand your process. Writing courses are one of the few places you’re certain to meet other writers.

It’s nice to be held accountable – by friends and deadlines – for your work ethic, particularly on those difficult stretches when the words don’t come easily.


Experimenting with styles.
Life is too short to be boring, especially when it comes to writing. A lot of new writers get so comfortable with their trademark style or genre that they refuse to give any others a fair go. This is understandable; I mean, there is a certain kind of logic to it, isn’t there? We usually envision ourselves writing in a particular style because that’s the way books today are marketed. If you see yourself as a poet, a conjurer of fantasy, or a non-fiction enthusiast, then chances are this is the style you’ll devote yourself to as it’s where you wish to make the most improvement.

However, not many realise that by experimenting with different styles you can actually become a better, more well-rounded writer. The lessons you learn by trying something new will often bleed into your style or genre of choice in ways you mightn’t’ve expected. That’s not even mentioning how rewarding attempting something out of your comfort zone can be. It can also feel liberating, as the pressure to produce something amazing is lifted. You might even find yourself enjoying it more than you thought you would.

Expect to do a fair amount of experimenting with styles at a writing course. First you’ll study them, then you’ll attempt them yourselves.  The key is to embrace this challenge. If you don’t go in with an open mind and a willingness to learn … well, the results will show.


Workshopping (oh, the places you’ll go!).
If lectures are the meat and veg of a writing course, then workshopping is definitely the bread and butter. Expect to do a lot of it, regardless of subject choices. In a workshopping session, class members turn in samples of their own writing for both written and verbal critiques. Don’t worry, it sounds scarier than it actually is.

Over the duration of your studies you’ll build rapport with your teachers and classmates. They’ll come to recognise strengths and weaknesses in your work, things you won’t be able to catch on your own because you’re too close.

Workshopping is invaluable and will become a vital part of your process. While self-editing is of utmost importance, a piece of writing won’t reach its true potential until others have offered their take on it. These people represent a sampling of your intended audience, so it’s important to consider their opinions. Of course, some critiques will be worth more to you than others. The author must use their own discretion when it comes to making changes. But if more than two people have the same issue, then chances are the criticism is valid. In time, you’ll come to view these less as a blow to your ego and more as an opportunity to better your work.

As they say, knowing is half the battle.


What to do with all that tasty, first-hand industry knowledge.
Most writing courses will organise guest speakers from different walks of the industry. Make sure you don’t miss these! They contain highly practical advice that will benefit anyone who wants a future in writing. Not only will you gain a greater understanding of how the industry works (both nationally and internationally), but it can also show you how your own writing goals fit in the scheme of things.

The professionals who spoke to my class were published authors, publishers, journalists, freelancers, literary festival curators, and more. They were all fantastic people with a genuine interest in helping us. They offered knowledge, advice and even a cautionary tale or two. Crucially, these guest speakers didn’t just talk at us, they asked questions and encouraged discussion.


Networking 101. Beginner’s class: ‘Hi, it’s nice to meet you!’
It has never been easier to network with other writers. Presentations from the aforementioned guest speakers are a great opportunity to network. My advice, should you find yourself listening to an industry professional, is to be engaged and make an impression.

Once you’ve physically met them you can follow them online (most professionals have an online presence). Take an interest in their projects and do your best to make it to launches and events. Professional writers are human, too, and they’ll appreciate you making an effort.

(Who knows? They could even repay the favour when the time comes for you to promote your own work.)

This stepping stone is veering from the topic at hand; in the early stages it’s perhaps more important to build relationships with your classmates than it is to worry about industry connections. I merely wished to note that writing courses can open a lot of doors for you, professionally.


However … enrolling will not grant you super-human writing powers!
There’s a common misconception going around that the sheer act of enrolling in a writing course will instantly unlock all the untapped potential within. Well, far be it from me to burst this bubble, but writing just isn’t an exact science. There is no formula, no hidden recipe for greatness. Greatness comes (I hear) from years of dedication. If you’re just starting out – hell, even if you’re at an intermediate or advanced level – a year or two at a writing course will not make you the perfect writer. It can accelerate the process, sure, but again that depends on how much individuals are willing to apply themselves.

Some students enrolled expecting the course to verify what they already knew: that they were brilliant and completely beyond the lessons on offer. (As an aside, isn’t it funny that people with these sorts of attitudes almost never have the application to back them up?) The truth is writers never really stop learning. There are always new approaches to try, new techniques to learn and boundaries to push. How many can say that about their more traditional careers?

For these students it was their attitudes that prevented them from improving. Some might not have believed they were God’s gift to writing, but they were lazy, or disinterested in what the teachers had to say.

I’m mentioning all this because a lot of students get frustrated with their lack of immediate progress. Many feel disillusioned and drop out, which is a shame. Statistics like these could be avoided if someone would have just leveled with them earlier and said, ‘Hey, if your patience can’t match your ambition then this mightn’t be the right path for you.’


Know your limitations (when studying, bench pressing or eating Christmas dinner).
There will be times when studying may seem like a bit of a grind, when you’ll feel overwhelmed or inundated with assessments. The best way to prepare for this is to know your own limitations. Don’t attempt full-time study if you know you won’t be able to prioritise it. Consider enrolling part-time or taking a short course if you feel it’d be more your speed.


Where will your qualification lead you?
A qualification in creative writing isn’t quite the same as a qualification in business or hospitality. Chances are it probably won’t land you some fantastical day job. There are exceptions, of course, but, generally speaking, writing’s a tough gig. It’s important to be somewhat realistic about what you want and where you expect to go with it. It helps if you’re in it for the right reasons. I came to regard my studies as a form of personal development and not something that had a tangible desk job waiting for me at the end of it.

There will be opportunities for further study, often in an area that’s more specialised (i.e. publishing or journalism). If you want to know where a course can lead you, check out student testimonials on the relevant institute websites (but be warned that they can be hyperbolic and tend to show only half the real picture). Professional editing is a viable (though hard to break into) alternative for those set on a career in the creative industry.


Accessibility, Opportunities, and Everything In-Between.
To finish up, I wanted to bring back the point I raised earlier about writing communities. There are a few other ways in which they can benefit you. I’ve found being around other writers a great way to keep abreast of writing competitions and opportunities. You can also turn each other onto some great new reads (let’s face it, it can be tough to find trustworthy opinions). And let’s not forget how inspiring it can be to take part in a class discussion. Involving yourself in a heated exchange of ideas is a great way to stimulate your mind.


Conclusion
One could argue that all of the above could just as easily be found in a community writers group, and I suppose it would be true. However, in my experience, writing courses offer more of a level playing field, one far more conducive to learning. Established writers groups can be cliquey and advanced. Some mightn’t have the patience for new members who are just starting out. At least in a writing course you know – regardless of individual skill level – that you’re all in the same boat. Writing courses are more welcoming because they are, by their very nature, designed to educate.

Besides, are you really going to learn anything at a writers group if the other members intimidate the hell out of you?

T.O’C.

 

The Merits of Formal Education for the Aspiring Writer.


Conclusion
One could argue that all of the above could just as easily be found in a community writers group, and I suppose it would be true. However, in my experience, writing courses offer more of a level playing field, one far more conducive to learning. Established writers groups can be cliquey and advanced. Some mightn’t have the patience for new members who are just starting out. At least in a writing course you know – regardless of individual skill level – that you’re all in the same boat. Writing courses are more welcoming because they are, by their very nature, designed to educate.

Besides, are you really going to learn anything at a writers group if the other members intimidate the hell out of you?

Tomorrow: ‘The Merits of Formal Education for the Aspiring Writer’ reposted in its entirety.

The Merits of Formal Education for the Aspiring Writer.


Accessibility, Opportunities, and Everything In-Between.
To finish up, I wanted to bring back the point I raised earlier about writing communities. There are a few other ways in which they can benefit you. I’ve found being around other writers a great way to keep abreast of writing competitions and opportunities. You can also turn each other onto some great new reads (let’s face it, it can be tough to find trustworthy opinions). And let’s not forget how inspiring it can be to take part in a class discussion. Involving yourself in a heated exchange of ideas is a great way to stimulate your mind.

Tomorrow: Conclusion.

The Merits of Formal Education for the Aspiring Writer.

Where will your qualification lead you?
A qualification in creative writing isn’t quite the same as a qualification in business or hospitality. Chances are it probably won’t land you some fantastical day job. There are exceptions, of course, but, generally speaking, writing’s a tough gig. It’s important to be somewhat realistic about what you want and where you expect to go with it. It helps if you’re in it for the right reasons. I came to regard my studies as a form of personal development and not something that had a tangible desk job waiting for me at the end of it.

There will be opportunities for further study, often in an area that’s more specialised (i.e. publishing or journalism). If you want to know where a course can lead you, check out student testimonials on the relevant institute websites (but be warned that they can be hyperbolic and tend to show only half the real picture). Professional editing is a viable (though hard to break into) alternative for those set on a career in the creative industry.

Tomorrow: Accessibility, Opportunities, and Everything In-Between.